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Chapter Text

The four musketeers strolled into the Louvre in a sleepy and languid manner, the sweltering morning sun blistering through the clouds and slowing their movements considerably.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of meeting the king on this very fine day then, Athos?" Aramis hollered, breaking away from his brief scrabble with Porthos.

Gazing over his shoulder momentarily, Athos took in the sight of his three brothers, the three men who managed to hold him together through every battle, every triumph and every defeat. And he smiled.

"We have the pleasure," Athos elaborated as they slipped into the shade of the palace archways. "Of meeting with a physician, travelling from the south, who claims he can eliminate the effects of aging. And has offered to demonstrate these claims to the king."

The three shook their heads disbelievingly. For the past few months, the king had been inviting various people from around the country and beyond to demonstrate talents and theories before himself and the court. And each and every arduous meeting dragged forth Treville and his four favorite musketeers.

Every time.

Sweeping into the courtroom, the four men made their way to their various stations in the grand room.

The king was sat majestically on his throne, peering at his shining nails whilst a small scrawny looking man introduced himself elaborately before the room.

d'Artagnan caught Athos' eye from where he was stood and rolled his eyes dramatically, earning himself a rare grin from the older musketeer before he zoned back into what the man was saying.

"Your majesty! I am Monsieur Le Maître, and I am stood before you to present my latest discovery." He announced proudly, throwing his arms wide for added attention. "We call it 'Le Sauveur'."

He'd caught the king's attention now, the man leaning eagerly in his throne, his face wrapt with excitement. "Does it work?" He questioned, earning a sneer from the cardinal who looked as if he would rather watch paint dry than listen to the man's claims.

Le Maître grinned back, flashing far too many teeth for Athos to find comfortable, as he withdrew a small white pouch from his cloak and held it out for the whole court to see.

"I would offer you my word." He chuckled, a little bitterly. "But, for the king of France...I believe something more special is in order. How about a demonstration?"

The cardinal jumped forwards. "The king shall participate in no such...experiments!" He hissed indignantly, folding his arms in a rather petulant manner as Treville moved forward to agree.

"Oh no, no, no!" Le Maître quickly corrected. "Of course not, this is for his Majesty's entertainment! I was suggesting a more..." He trailed off, glancing around the room until his pale eyes settled on d'Artagnan.

Stretching out a bent, old finger he annunciated the words. "You boy."

d'Artagnan paused, unwilling to be a part of this twisted performance.

"Come now, boy." Le Maître prompted, glaring at d'Artagnan expectantly. Sparing a glance at his three friends, who all seemed equally reluctant, he moved forwards nervously.

"Come now," Le Maitre smiled as a young maid supplied him with a small chalice of wine. "Don't be afraid, boy."

d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Tell me. What is your name, lad?"

"d'Artagnan." Le Maître nodded with a grim smile. Beckoning the gascon with his index finger, the maid helped him drop the white pouch of powder into the wine before holding it out for d'Artagnan to take.

Hesitantly d'Artagnan took it in both his hands, holding it firmly and frowning up at the king skeptically.

Louis huffed impatiently. "Drink it d'Artagnan!"

With one final glance directed at Athos, the boy brought the cup to his lips and took a sip of the cool, blood red liquid.

A few silent moments floated by effortlessly and d'Artagnan pulled the chalice away.

Le Maître smiled smugly.

And d'Artagnan began choking.

The whole room erupted in a flurry of movements, as d'Artagnan stumbled blindly backwards, crying out in pain as his bones shifted beneath his skin.

The three inseparables surged forwards, growling like hungry wolves for Le Maître's flesh.

However, as if planned, another five men leapt from the crowds and restrained them as Le Maître's voice called across the chaotic court for calm.

With a racing heart and boiling anger Athos pulled past the men holding them back when suddenly he was thrown back as an impossibly bright light exploded before them.

Heaving and fighting the ringing in his ears, Athos swayed dizzily to his feet.

Le Maître was grinning like a cheshire cat over a pile of clothes.

d'Artagnan's clothes.

d'Artagnan was gone.

d'Artagnan was gone!

Athos felt as if he'd been punched in the chest.

d'Artagnan was gone.

Something moved beneath the rags.

...But d'Artagnan was gone...

...Only...he wasn't...

A small head popped from the leg of d'Artagnan's breeches.

A small child's head.

Chocolatey dark eyes blinked blearily before the court, a small nose and plump lips wrinkling up and throwing shadows against the small horseshoe shaped scar above his right cheek bone, nervously.

"Your majesty!" Le Maître chuckled excitedly. "I give you d'Artagnan!"

The child blinked and disappeared back under the clothes sleepily.

And Athos' life was considerably shortened. 

***

Chapter Text

The court was unnaturally quiet. The usual bubbling of chatter and ringing of raised voices replaced with a deathly loud silence.

Le Maître's grin grew and Athos never wanted to kill anyone as much as he did in that moment.

But then the king began clapping and Athos stood corrected.

He'd never wanted to kill two people as much as he did in that moment.

Little d'Artagnan reappeared once more, curling himself up modestly and staring at the court in utter bewilderment.

"Treville!" Le Maître summoned with the clicking of his fingers. "I believe this is your musketeer."

And with that another maid moved forwards and draped a blanket around d'Artagnan before lifting the child up and handing him to the man on the brink of a heart attack. The whole time the King was barking wildly in the background.

Then Aramis snapped.

Surging forwards the Spaniard shoved Le Maître against the wall of the courtroom.

"Turn him back!" He screamed causing Le Maître to visibly tremble.

"Unhand him, musketeer!" Louis bellowed and Aramis had to use every ounce of his willpower to obey.

Releasing the man's ruffled doublet from his clenched fists, Aramis stepped back grinding his teeth. Those usual jovial eyes shadowed with fear and rage. A very dangerous combination.

"The effects last two weeks, and two weeks alone. I can assure you." Le Maître filled in hurriedly and Aramis hissed angrily whilst Porthos warred with an inner turmoil to crush the man's skull or...to crush the man's skull... and forced himself to keep his distance, prowling the courtroom instead.

Treville meanwhile was still holding d'Artagnan, the young boy having wrapped his arms around his neck in return. He looked afraid.

Athos' anger flared.

"Your majesty," he grit out. "This is witchcraft!"

The cardinal nodded. "Yes, sire! If this spreads through Paris...to Rome! We will have every nation's army baying for out blood! This is the most violent form of blaspheme I have witnessed, your majesty! It must be dealt with accordingly."

Le Maître didn't even flinch.

Eyeing the man before him with awe, Louis stepped forwards. "The court is dismissed, this shall not be discussed beyond these walls," And upon turning to Treville ordered. "Take d'Artagnan to the garrison and will send word by morning."

Athos almost exploded.

Porthos almost fainted.

And Aramis almost stopped functioning.

Almost.

Striding out of the court with glowing red anger the four men...and child made their way towards the Garrison.

Ignoring the questioning looks and mutters of d'Artagnan's lack of presence, not to mention the fact Treville was still carrying a sleeping child no older than 4 in his arms. The foursome headed straight to Treville's office where the child was deposited on the desk, now wide awake and looking rightfully confused.

After plenty of pacing and hushed talking Porthos set out to find d'Artagnan some clothing to replace the thin blanket around his waist and Aramis set out to find some wine and food...but mainly wine.

Taking in a deep breath Treville crouched his age bent legs and knelt before d'Artagnan.

"Hello d'Artagnan." The Captain said softly as Athos moved forwards slightly.

d'Artagnan frowned and made a slight hand gesture, and Treville cursed.

"What?" Athos demanded, panic clenching his heart slightly. Ignoring his lieutenant's stressful state, Treville turned his attention back to the frowning boy before him.

"Adieussiatz." He tried and d'Artagnan's face lit up with understanding.

"Adieu." He responded with that smile...that same smile...

Athos watched baffled.

"Va plan?" Treville asked.

"Cal far anar, et vos?" d'Artagnan responded in his garbled little voice.

Treville chuckled. "Va plan, mercés. Uh...Cossí vos sonatz?"

"Me soni Charlie!" d'Artagnan giggled.

Treville smiled back sadly and ruffled the lads hair. "Adieussiatz Charlie."

Turning back to Athos Treville sighed. "He understands French, he just can't speak it...does that make sense?" He explained and Athos nodded with a gulp. "He speaks Occitan fluently, but I believe he's merely learning to understand French... It's relatively common back home, in Gascony."

Athos nodded again, unable to do anything else.

Shaking his head Treville prompted Athos to introduce himself.

Moving stiffly forward, Athos knelt before the little boy, those brown trusting eyes locking with his instantly.

"Uh...Hello Charlie..." Athos said quietly, watching the little boy before him.

"Adieu." d'Artagnan responded with a smile. "Cossí vos dison?"

Sparing a helpless look with Treville, the older man filled in. "He wants to know your name."

Nodding weakly, Athos turned his attention back to d'Artagnan.

"My name's Athos." The musketeer smiled softly, unsure of how he felt...of how he should feel.

"Encantat, 'Thos!" d'Artagnan smiled back.

Athos turned back to a smiling Treville. "He says it's a pleasure to meet you." 

***

Okay...so Treville is now officially from Gascony! I decided d'Art would mist likely refer to himself as Charles or Charlie since I doubt many four year olds get called by their last names, but I'll still refer to him as d'Artagnan with the exemption of character dialect to avoid confusion...I hope!!! And also d'Art can't speak French but he understands it...I know that may sound a little odd but I have a good friend who comes from a Spanish background and he was trying to explain to me how when he was little he could understand what his parents were saying, whether they were speaking in Spanish or English, but just couldn't reply in Spanish. I was a little skeptical but apparently it's a real thing...but anyways....

Basically if your a little unsure about what Treville and little d'Art were saying when they were all Occitan-y... This is it:

T: Hello.

D: Hi.

T: How are you?

D: So, so (alright), and you?

T: I'm good thank you...Uh...(can I ask) what your called?

D: My name's Charlie.

I know its a pretty lame convo, but even the internet has its bounds!!! I initially wanted to write it in Gascon, but I could literally find nothing that would really reach the expectations I had for this sorta language development thing I'm aiming for...so I settled with Occitan which I think (and don't quote me on this) is fairly similar with a more Spanish type background, (which will come in handy with our gorgeous Spainard, Aramis.)

 ***

Chapter Text

Aramis, Porthos and Athos stared at the little boy before them.

Unable to deal with their heated and wordless gazes any longer, d'Artagnan jumped from the desk, still keeping the blanket wrapped firmly around his waist, and peered up at the giant men before him.

Moving hesitantly forwards Porthos handed the child a small bundle of clothing.

"Do...uh do you need any...help?" The larger man asked nervously.

d'Artagnan smiled up at him and shook his head slightly, nudging the man's knees to the side and allowing him access into Treville's rooms to change.

Aramis' heart nearly melted when d'Artagnan reappeared.

The small white shirt Porthos had brought for him was a little too big, occasionally slipping off his shoulders and forcing him to roll up his sleeves repeatedly. His dark brown breeches seemed a perfect fit and the impossibly cute little black boots made even Athos crack a slight smile.

But what made them all almost squeal, was the necklace d'Artagnan wore. They hadn't noticed it earlier, but the lucky wooden pendant hung low against the boys chest, barely floating a few inches above his belly button. Athos had noticed d'Artagnan wearing it when he was...well older? But he hasn't realized it had stemmed from his childhood. It was pretty endearing.

Not to mention the fact the boy had tied his long hair up into a low ponytail, keeping the straggly strands from his eyes.

Aramis crooned.

He. Was. Adorable.

Walking forwards steadily, d'Artagnan held out the now folded blanket, offering it to Porthos.

He gazed quizzically up at the two new men before thrusting his chubby little arm forwards. "Charlie." He smiled, keeping his introductions simple.

Porthos took the boys hand in his huge one and d'Artagnan couldn't keep the look of awe off his face as he came face to face with the giant.

"I'm Porthos." He grinned and d'Artagnan couldn't help but let his smile grow wider.

"And I'm Aramis." The other man supplied, offering his hand to d'Artagnan's, which he shook eagerly.

d'Artagnan hesitated for a few moments before finally asking the question all three men had been dreading. "Mama? Papa?" He asked softly, his voice eager but...scared?

Porthos sighed and crouched down in front of d'Artagnan once more. "Not today, Charlie. We're gonna look after you for now." He smiled sadly and d'Artagnan's little heart broke.

Biting his lower lip and fighting off tears, d'Artagnan nodded. He somehow felt he should trust these men. That they were his brothers.

Brothers.

His trail of thoughts was suddenly interrupted when the luscious smell of bread bit its way up his nose.

Snapping his head round he watched hungrily as Athos began slicing a new warm loaf.

His stomach groaned slightly.

"You hungry?" Athos asked with a wry smile and d'Artagnan nodded eagerly. "

C'mon then." Aramis grinned, taking the boys hand and dragging him towards the table.

Balancing precariously on one of the stools, d'Artagnan listened and giggled to the men's horseplay contently, nibbling on bits of bread and broth.

By late evening Athos was biting his lower lip to stifle his laughter and both Aramis and Porthos were red in the face from giggling as d'Artagnan babbled away in Occitan.

The boy, while slightly confused by their reactions to his tale of when his favourite horse went missing, enjoyed the sound of their laughter, Porthos' in particular. So he didn't really mind their lack of sympathy for his depressing story, in fact, if anything it made him feel better. Like he'd done something right.

He smiled.

Eventually, when the night was reaching into the early hours of morning, d'Artagnan's head began drooping ever so slightly and his yawns becoming more noticeable.

Sharing a knowing smile with AramisAramis and Porthos, Athos managed to catch the boys shoulders before he face planted with table and picked him up.

Athos' heart warmed as the boy curled in on him, his head burying itself sleepily in his shoulder as he murmured his name.

They'd agree earlier that they'd all camp out in Aramis' rooms at the garrison, following a brief argument of how Porthos' room was a health and safety hazard and Athos' rooms were too far from the Garrison itself.

Laying the boy down in Aramis' bed, the three musketeers scattered themselves around the room, each never straying too far away from d'Artagnan.

Athos drifted off slowly, listening to the steady breathing of his three friends and praying that when he woke this would all be some strange deranged dream.

It wasn't.

Athos woke to the sound of Aramis squeaking.

Rolling overover grouchily he realized the cause of said noise.

At some point during the night d'Artagnan had wriggled out of his bed and snuggled down with Porthos across the room.

The little boy was splayed out across the man's chest, his floppy hair spread out over the man's heart and Porthos' arms wrapped securely around d'Artagnan's waist.

Aramis was stood above them, his face almost purple and hands clasped over his mouth.

Athos rolled his eyes and chuckled before rousing the two.

After another brief meeting with Treville, who explained that the King wished to see d'Artagnan at the palace in two days time, so in the meantime the three men had two days duty leave before they must return to serving the King, the three men and d'Artagnan returned to the Garrison courtyard.

While Athos, Aramis and Porthos trained, d'Artagnan sat beside Jacques, the young stable hand and watched eagerly as the musketeers fulfilled their training.

He was particularly taken by how Athos fought, his swordwork something even his father would deem impressive, and he hoped that one day, he could at least be able to keep up with the man's footwork, let alone his sword.

By midday d'Artagnan was fed up of waiting and after numerous attempts managed to ask Jacques in very broken French, if he could see the horses.

Jacques seemed uncertain at first, but after holding those big doe eyes for far longer than any other man would dare, he guided d'Artagnan's smug little face across to the stables.

d'Artagnan was extremely used to being around horses, and he understood very well the consequences of upsetting these fine beasts.

His knowledge and calmness surprised Jacques and the young man watched in awe as the little boy gained the trust of Athos' grumpy mount, Rodger.

Dipping its muscular neck down, Rodger nuzzled and huffed against the boys face causing him to giggle and nuzzle back.

Jacques chuckled warmly, but then a shadow fell over him and he realized he would probably never laugh again.

As if he weighed nothing, Jacques was lifted from the floor and pulled face to face with Porthos. Behind him stood a livid Athos and Aramis.

"P..Porthos..." The stable hand choked out and the great man's grip tightened.

Aramis meanwhile zipped round the pair and picked up d'Artagnan.

"We told you," Athos said dangerously. "Stay. Where. You. Were."

Jacques gulped. "I...I..." He tried only to fall silent as Porthos prepared to pummel him.

The big man froze however when Aramis yelped and d'Artagnan wrenched himself from the man's arms.

Lunging himself at Porthos, the little boy began snarling and hissing, tugging at Porthos' trouser leg.

"Amic!" He snapped pointing at Jacques. "Amic!"

Slowly, Porthos lowered Jacques to the floor, his eyes still watching as d'Artagnan pouted at him.

"Qu'ei lo men amic." He said firmly before looking at the others.

Athos shook his head and sighed, realizing the little boys distress. "Okay, Charlie. We were just worried, that's all." He said softly, crouching before d'Artagnan. "Please don't scare us like that."

d'Artagnan pouted even harder and nodded before allowing the musketeer to pick him up.

"Okay, 'Thos." He whispered.

***

 Hello dearies!

I'm so sorry this is a pretty pointless chapter but I promise there will be far more mischief and excitement in the future!

However...you may have to wait a little longer to get them... I know...but I'm disappearing for a while writing-wise, I've got a couple of major things I've gotta sort out and a few of them won't be extremely pleasant...

I'm so gretaeful for our support in the last chapter and I'm sorry I haven't responded to each of your beautiful comments - I'm completely neck deep with work at the minute and I've only managed to post this while I'm eating!!! (A pretty nice Mac and cheese, at that!)

So once again, I'm apologizing in advance for any disappointments with my severe lack of updates...

Sorry.

All my love and best wishes,

Calon.

xxx

Chapter Text

"So..." Aramis drawled as he dealt their cards. "Who's going to tell Constance?"

Porthos groaned and dropped his head against the table, causing d'Artagnan to stir from where he lay in his bed.

"What?" Athos replied tersely, ignoring Porthos' dramatic flare. "Who's going to tell her that the man she loves is now only four years old?"

Aramis chuckled dryly and pretended to ignore Porthos as he slipped the King of Hearts up his sleeve.

"Once the king has tired of d'Artagnan, he'll have to stay at the Garrison, right?" He said smoothly as he gathered his cards.

Athos hummed in agreement.

"He'll get bored, Athos. You saw him today. We can't look after him all the time... Maybe Constance would be willing to keep an eye on him? You know, help spread the weight a little?" Aramis tried, the last thing he wanted was little d'Artagnan to get hurt in the search of some form of entertainment.

Athos sighed heavily and Porthos zoned back into the conversation.

"We'll see." The older man huffed as he glanced over at the sleeping child. "We'll see."

***

When Aramis rose, a couple of hours after dawn, d'Artagnan had already escaped his bed once more.

Blinking around the room owlishly, half expecting the boy to be curled up against Porthos or Athos, the Spaniard began panicking when he realized the boy was with neither.

Pulling himself up groggily, his heart rate slowed as his sleepy eyes fell upon d'Artagnan.

The boy was stood over near the fire, tracing his fingers over the three leather pauldrons settled against the table.

Aramis watched quietly as the boy slide his fingers over Athos', his hands hitching over the various slices in the material from various skirmishes, and he could practically see the wonder emanating off the lad.

Still unaware of Aramis' gaze, d'Artagnan dragged his fingers over Porthos' more intricately fashioned pauldron and Aramis had to stifle a laugh at the amused look that flashed across the boys face as he noticed the oddly shaped marks covering the leather.

Moving quietly from his bedroll on the floor, Aramis approached d'Artagnan, initially making the boy jump back and pull his hand away as though he'd been caught stealing. But after a brief chuckle and guiding the boys hand back to the cool leather, he relaxed.

"You see this one?" Aramis whispered as he pointed at one particular tear in his own pauldron.

d'Artagnan nodded.

"This was my first fight as a musketeer. We were on a mission to deliver a message to a Duke a few miles from the city. We were attacked by bandits." He had d'Artagnan's attention now, the boy watching wide eyed as the story continued.

"I was fighting 3 men. One of them was gaining the upper hand, when Porthos pushed me out of the way." d'Artagnan turns his gaze back to the tear, his fingers brushing over it slightly. "Whenever I put my pauldron on, I remember the first day I met Porthos. And how he'd saved my life without even knowing me, that this slice on my pauldron couldve been alot more serious had it not been for Porthos'  bravery." He smiled softly.

d'Artagnan's eyes flicked over to where Porthos lay and he grinned.

"Amic." He said quietly, touching the tear and then splaying the same hand over the sharpshooters chest. "Amic."

Aramis nodded and smiled broadly. d'Artagnan smiled back, his lips spreading even wider when Aramis pressed his own palm against the boys chest.

"Amic." The Spaniard said quietly. "You're my amic, too."

***

Amic = friend.

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan let out a long keening whine and Athos contemplated slamming his head against the wall.

Repetitively.

"Aww, Athos!" Porthos smirked, mimicking d'Artagnan's tone and causing the lad to giggle. "C'mon, we're only going to the market, Charlie can come along!"

Athos shot a steely glare at the larger man and gave in.

"Fine!" He gasped, throwing his hands in the air before swiping at the nearest wine bottle. "Be back within an hour!'

d'Artagnan all but flew of his chair, letting out a whoop of triumph and half dragging Porthos out the door.

Athos rolled his shoulders once more and watched as Porthos' smug expression disappeared behind the door frame before taking a deep swing of bitter wine.

What had he done?

***

Porthos grinned as d'Artagnan's babbling ceased when they passed the pastry stall.

"Ya want some?" He asked, crouching beside d'Artagnan and pointing toward the stall.

Big, excited brown eyes locked with his and Porthos' hand flew towards his purse instantly.

"Òc, vos pregui." d'Artagnan smiled hopefully.

It was as d'Artagnan munched on a fresh croissant that his eyes locked on a familiar figure.

As Porthos finished up at the final stall he pocketed another croissant for his little brother and turned back to where he'd been sat.

Only he wasn't.

Porthos' heart lurched into his throat.

Where was he?!

Swallowing thickly Porthos stumbled past the stalls, praying the boy hadn't strayed far.

Clearly he had.

Picking up the pace, Porthos began shoving people out of his path, his eyes searching over every crater and corner of the square as he began calling for the boy.

There was no response.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan continued to race after his father, feet scuffling and dragging against the cobbles as he darted after the man.

Grinding to a halt, he almost slammed into the man.

Smiling like a cheshire cat, the boy tugged at his others doublet, readying himself to jump into the man's arms.

Only, when the man turned around, it wasn't his father.

He was a stranger.

Stumbling backwards blindly, d'Artagnan crashed against one of the old soup stalls, coming face to face with the furious owner.

Dashing over the fallen table, d'Artagnan leapt for freedom before the old hag could snag his shirt and raced for cover. He'd just about cleaned the site when he sprinted straight into a pair of legs. Peering up in a daze, his eyes fell on yet another recognizable figure.

Aramis.

"Charlie?" The man breathed, perplexed at finding the boy unaccompanied and clearly distressed.

"'Mis!" The boy cried, his voice wavering slightly.

Noticing his discomfort, the Spaniard scooped up the boy and held him tightly. He listened silently as the lad continued snuffling nonsense into his collar. Some of the words he was able to decipher, merely because of the closeness between Occitan and Spanish.

The sharpshooter sighed as the realization if the situation dawned on him."Oh, Charlie."

The boy answered with a choked sob.

"Its okay...let's find Porthos, eh?" He said softly. "Bet he's running round like a headless chicken looking for you!"

d'Artagnan nodded with a stiff laugh and held to the man even more tightly as they waddled through the swaying crowds.

When they finally came across Porthos, the man was preparing to hold full blow inquires into who had seen d'Artagnan last.

Once the larger man's eyes settled on the pair, he dropped the man he'd been holding by his collar, and came barreling towards them.

Having prepared himself to be told of, d'Artagnan was more than a little shocked when he was ripped from Aramis' arms and squeezed tightly to the man's chest, with the one breathless warning of: "Don't ever do that again."

Charlie nodded.

"Ne'u ditz pas Athos." He told them quietly and the two laughed, resulting in him being squashed even harder against Porthos.

He didn't mind really.

***

 Òc, vos pregui. = Yes, please.

Ne'u ditz pas Athos = Don't tell Athos.

Chapter Text

Aramis snorted, Porthos squeaked and Athos bit his lip. Hard.

d'Artagnan glared at the three men before him as he scratched his head, wishing that whatever strange soap they made him use would eventually stop...smelling so much!

He guessed he sort of deserved it. After all, rolling around in the mud with Porthos, (which said giant found extremely amusing,) was not the best of ideas. Especially if you were to meet the King of France the following day.

"Yeah..." Aramis nodded. "I think you're ready to see the King."

d'Artagnan snorted and tugged his baggy shirt up over his shoulder.

"Okay," Athos smiled weakly, extending his hand to d'Artagnan. "Let's go."

The four strode calmly from Treville's office, deciding it would be better to travel quietly to the Louvre than on horse back.

Walking through the blistering streets, Athos watched as d'Artagnan took in his surroundings, his head snapping to face any noise exceeding over that of the usual morning chatter.

"It's different to home?" Athos asked as he guided the boy around a fallen cart.

d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. It was different to home. In every sense of the word. Different land, different people...different family...

He didn't like it much. But his different family were okay.

He was sure his friends back home would be very jealous of him living with the Musketeers.

He couldn't wait to tell them.

Skipping over a handful of apples discarded against the cobbles d'Artagnan tried to keep up with Athos as they drew up to the Louvre gates.

d'Artagnan watched in awe, his mouth dropping open as he took in the lavish palace before him. Of course, he'd seen it before, but this time, he actually saw it. Took in the beautiful ornate flowers and finely trimmed hedges. Took in the stunning palace with its twisting walls and sky high crystals windows. Took in everything.

Athos smiled down at the boy. "Guess this is really different to home, huh?" The musketeers chuckled, watching with mirth in his eyes as the boy nodded back giddily.

Speaking of giddily...

Athos groaned as he heard Porthos shove...no toss, Aramis over one of the knee high hedges aligning the paths towards the back entrance to the palace.

The eruption of 'Porthos' giggles that followed had Athos biting back a smile and rolling his eyes, himself.

Muttering curses and pulling thorns from his curly locks, Aramis stumbled up the path to catch up with the others, intent on leaping for Porthos and wreaking his revenge. That is, up until the point the doors to the Louvre flew open and the King himself emerged.

So, instead, he settled on a discreetly vicious sharp kick to Porthos' shin, as the King stared at d'Artagnan with untamed awe.

"Hello d'Artagnan." The King grinned, appearing more like a child than d'Artagnan did.

"Adieu." d'Artagnan said quietly, looking up at Athos for support.

The King frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"He speaks Occitan, sire. d'Artagnan is from Gascony." Athos jumped in, sparing a quick encouraging glance to the child.

The King hummed, looking towards the Cardinal, who still remained scrutinizing the boy as if he was some meat at the market.

"Shall we continue into the hall?" His majesty questioned and the Cardinal offered the most minute nod Athos had ever witnessed. But with this gesture, the five servants and Treville flanking the two men, spun around in practiced unison and led the three musketeers and little d'Artagnan inside the Louvre.

As the King babbled to d'Artagnan, who still clung to Athos' hand for support as he took in the tapestries and paintings against the walls of the corridors, Aramis and Porthos continued to pinch, jab and kick each other. Muffling their grunts of pain with well timed coughs, and masking their squeals of laughter with the clearing of their throats.

Athos was going to kill them later.

Pulling into the King's dining hall, the two men calmed their antics and proceeded along the elongated room.

Athos' blood froze in his veins when his eyes settled on someone he never expected or wanted to ever see again.

Le Maître.

Letting out a low growl, Athos pulled d'Artagnan behind him. Aramis and Porthos appearing beside the two within and instant.

Of course the man had two guards flanking him, probably thanks to the Cardinal, however this didn't settle the sickness swirling in Athos' stomach as the man smiled sweetly back.

"Hello, d'Artagnan." Le Maître grinned, tilting his head to get a better view of the lad, positioned securely behind the older musketeers legs. "How are you?"

Although d'Artagnan didn't know the man, he had enough brains to clamp his mouth shut and respond to the question with nothing more than a steely glare. Something he'd learnt from watching Athos deal with both Aramis and Porthos.

"Is he shy?" Le Maître questioned, turning his cool eyes on Athos.

Clenching his free fist, the eldest replied tersely, "No. He just knows which questions are worth answering and which are not."

Something threatening flickered across Le Maître's face, but disappeared before Athos could fully register the expression.

"Well..." Le Maître grinned bitterly. "I'll have to start asking more worthy questions for our little gascon, eh?"

Athos bit back a shudder.

Our?

The King, still oblivious to the tension raining down upon the four men, announced the arrival of the queen.

The whole room bowed. Then rose.

However her Majesty's usual relaxed, and glowing demeanour was tainted with something along the lines of concern and displeasure.

She smiled weakly and pulled up beside her husband, pointedly ignoring making eye contact with Aramis, which Athos noted with a brief warning glare in the direction of the Spaniard. 

"Come, come." The king summoned, signalling to d'Artagnan.

Moving hesitantly forwards, d'Artagnan stepped around Athos' legs and approached the queen.

Her majesty smiled, her face opening up slightly as she took the toddlers hand.

The three musketeers smile warmly as d'Artagnan turned his head to face them, looking a little flustered and startled.

I mean, it wasn't everyday that you meet the King and Queen of France.

***

It was late evening by the time Athos managed to free them all from the palace.

Following a brief conversation with the queen, in which she distressed the fact that Constance should know of d'Artagnan's...sudden decrease in age...and that she was returning from visiting family members outside of Paris tomorrow evening. Athos took note and made haste to leave shortly afterwards.

There was only so much of the King's exclaiming that a man could take before he lost control.

Holding d'Artagnan's hand tightly, the man guided the lad from the palace gates and back into the now dark Parisian streets.

The older musketeer could sense the boys uneasiness, his little head snapping around and watching every drunk and whore that stumbled past with an unreadable expression.

"It's alright." Athos reassured him, squeezing his hand firmly.

However, even Athos' heart plummeted to his stomach when a band of red guards emerged from the darkness, snarling and snapping like ravaged dogs.

Aramis and Porthos instantly formed a protective triangle around the big, keeping their heads down and eyes averted.

It wasn't enough.

"Oi!" One of them called out, stumbling slightly from the rest of the group. "What'cha got th're?"

Porthos instantly moved forwards. "S'nothing to do with you, eh? Now why don't ya turn 'round, and crawl back to wherever you came from?"

That didn't help either.

Throwing a fist, which was instantly caught mid air by Porthos' fist, the battle began.

There were five men in total, usually an easy fight.

Only this time it wasn't.

Because d'Artagnan wasn't exactly competent with a sword...or anything, at that...

Remaining sturdily by d'Artagnan's side, Athos held back, merely yelling warnings to his two friends.

Within moments two of the men were down, the final trio staggering wildly towards Porthos and Aramis.

The first pair lurched at the two musketeers, throwing both their entire body weights over the two men and sending them clattering to the ground with gasps of surprise.

The final one, seeing that it was now only he and Athos standing, lurched forwards.

Solely trying to defend little d'Artagnan, Athos pushed the boy aside, wasting his precious seconds of time to disarm the man to save the child instead.

Athos was smacked against the ground with a sudden whoosh of air, his whole world spinning slightly as he began grappling with the dunkard in a most dishonorable way.

Whilst Porthos and Aramis continued manhandling the other two men onto the floor, Athos realized that he was in deep deep trouble.

Heart jumping and breathing coming in short rapid gasps, Athos tried feebly to throw the large drunk off him.

And then.

A sickening crack rang out.

And the man above Athos went limp.

Gasping, Athos rolled the unconscious man off him, grinning up to look at either Porthos or Aramis' smug faces.

Only he didn't grin up at either Porthos or Aramis' smug faces.

No, instead he grinned up at a rather sick looking d'Artagnan.

"Charlie?" Athos breathed, his grin falling from his face instantly as he took in the boy's pale face and trembling body, searching for any possible wounds.

Nothing.

Perplexed Athos pulled himself up and gazed down at the boy.

His confusion was short lived however, as his eyes settled on the loose cobble the boy was clutching tightly in his hand.

The stone he'd used to knock the man off Athos.

It was bloodstained.

Athos swallowed.

"Charlie." He said softly, crouching in front of the boy, who remained staring blankly into the distance. "Charlie, it's okay. I'm safe...there gone."

Aramis and Porthos were there now as well, both harbouring the same looks of concern.

"It's okay." He repeated gently, removing the stone from d'Artagnan's hand and tossing it discreetly aside. "You were very brave. But I'm here now, Charlie. I'm here."

And with those words, the tension from d'Artagnan's body dissipated and he threw his arms tightly around Athos' neck.

"M'a calut!" He said urgently and then repeated again in very poor French. "I had to."

Athos nodded and pulled the boy up into his arms.

"Charlie, look at me." He said softly, watching as the boy reluctantly lifted his head from his shoulder. "You saved my life and showed me how extremely brave you are tonight, my little Gascon." He smiled at the boy. "Thank you."

d'Artagnan froze.

Then slumped back into Athos arms with a weak laugh.

The three musketeers smiled, briefly hiding the sickness swirling in their stomachs after having had to put such a small child through that...

"Shall we go home, eh kid?" Porthos grinned. d'Artagnan hummed in response and clutched even more tightly to Athos.

"Òc."

***

Chapter Text

Aramis sighed nervously, running his trembling hand through the curly locks of hair plastered to the sides of his head with cool sweat.

d'Artagnan frowned up at the man, a little shocked of how tightly the Spaniard was clutching his hand.

Behind him, Athos huffed impatiently and Porthos grunted disapprovingly.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" Aramis snapped, his eyes filled with fire. "Why don't you do it then?! If you're so goddamn impatient!"

Neither of them moved and Aramis turned back to the Bonacieux's front door with a steely glare.

Moments of awkward silence whizzed by with relative ease, until d'Artagnan took the task upon himself and booted the door with impossible strength.

Aramis gasped in shock whilst the other two stifled their laughter.

Soft footfalls echoed from behind the wooden door and stopped when they arrived.

Aramis swallowed thickly.

"Hello?" Constance questioned, her eyebrows rising at the sight before her as she opened the door a little wider.

Aramis attempted one of his winning smiles, but it faltered and Constance's heart froze in her chest.

"Where's d'Artagnan?" She asked suddenly, her gut clenching when she registered his absence from the group.

Aramis opened his mouth but nothing came out. He paused and tried again.

"He's fine. Can we come in?" He asked as Constance frowned down at the little boy who'd taken to stepping around Aramis' legs as if it were the most exciting game he'd ever played.

"Please, Constance." Athos added softly already moving towards the house.

Nodding stiffly and still baffled in confusion, Constance guided them into the kitchen before promptly turning to face them and immobilizing them with her gaze.

"What's going on?" She demanded, still frowning at the small child now jumping on Porthos' boots in fits of giggles.

Athos sighed and accepted a swell bottle of wine Constance held out. "It's an extremely long story..."

***

An hour later, Constance slumped onto her chair, feeling a little light headed and...shocked to say the least...

d'Artagnan wasn't helping either, he'd taken to running full pelt at Athos and trying to head butt the back of their Lieutenants knees. (Which the elder musketeer found pretty irritating but also extremely endearing.)

"So..." Constance began but stopped short.

What was she going to ask?

What was there to say?

Aramis offered her a sad smile. "It's most likely not permanent..."

Porthos cringed.

'Most likely.'

"We will sort this out, Madame." Porthos said sternly, seeking to offer the woman more comfort than Aramis' pathetic 'most likely.'

'Most likely!'

What was the Spaniard thinking?!

Constance nodded stiffly, having taken to worrying her bottom lip and staring at d'Artagnan.

The room fell impossibly silent.

With a huge crash, however, it was broken. Five stunned faces turned to face the opposite side of the room.

A large, plump ginger cat leapt gracelessly through one of the small open windows lifting the dim kitchen. It crept swiftly over the countertop, paused, then leapt off.

"Gat!" d'Artagnan squealed and chased after the creature quite literally like a child possessed.

Constance laughed lightly and Porthos choked on the wine he'd helped himself to, along with the others.

Then silence reigned again as they each listened contently as d'Artagnan stomped through the house, running after the cat giddily.

"Does the king not see the treachery in this?" Constance asked, the smile falling from her face.

Athos sighed deeply once more. "I believe d'Artagnan's more entertaining than anything else to Louis." He paused and glanced over at the red haired woman. "But I can assure you Constance. This Le Maître will not get away with this."

Madame Bonacieux offered a watery smile and nodded her thanks. "I'm sure he'll be a handful for you. If you ever need any help...just ask. d'Artagnan had a habit of getting into trouble."

Athos smiled kindly back, noting the fondness in her voice.

"Speakin' of trouble..." Porthos began, and the others all became suddenly aware of the silence reigning over the house, once again. "Where's the whelp?"

And with those mere words, the four of them catapulted themselves of their chairs and belted through the house looking for the child.

Constance checked each room on the lower floor only to pause as she heard Athos chuckle from upstairs.

Stepping up after him, she soon discovered the reason.

d'Artagnan was sat on the landing with his legs crossed and the very same ginger cat curled up on his lap.

However, what made Athos truly smile was the fact d'Artagnan looked utterly stunned, his arms hovering above the cats furry back as though it were some holy relic touched by the lord himself.

Constance smiled as she too appeared at the top of the stairs and d'Artagnan looked up at them both.

"Gat." He said, turning his wide eyes back on the cat before looking back at Athos, Constance and now, Aramis and Porthos too.

Athos hummed in response before moving forwards and peeling the snoozing feline off the boy's lap (much to its distaste) and picked d'Artagnan up.

"We...we should...go." Athos said hesitantly, nodding to Constance who was still apparently in shock...

'...Apparently.'

The red haired woman nodded back, before adding.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Charlie."

d'Artagnan nodded absently and smiled, his eyes still transfixed on the fur scattered on his clothes.

Athos grinned triumphantly at over his shoulder at Constance's blatant acceptance to care for d'Artagnan and returned the boys embrace tightly.

***

Chapter Text

It was as Athos and d'Artagnan made their way the following morning to the safe haven that was Madame Bonacieux's house, when they were attacked.

And when Athos says 'attacked' what he actually means is a lone man from the other newly acquired group of musketeers approached the pair.

"Athos?" The young man asked, Peter, Athos believed his name was. Although he wasn't exactly sure.

Athos looked over at him, worry bubbling in his stomach as the man frowned at d'Artagnan, but his pale eyes quickly returned to his lieutenant.

"We...we were wondering where d'Artagnan was? I mean...we haven't heard from him in a while...and...well do you know where he is?" He asked.

Athos smiled weakly. He hadn't realized quite how popular d'Artagnan had become of late. He didn't really notice much about anyone if he were to be honest.

However he did notice how little d'Artagnan frowned up at Peter at the mention of his family name, that very frown only growing when Athos replied.

"He's returned to Gascony for a week." Athos clarified, enunciating the words just as Treville had told them. "He needed some time to take care of...what's left of his farm."

d'Artagnan's frown deepened and clutched more tightly to Athos' hand.

A warning perhaps?

Peter nodded with a weak smile. "When he gets back, tell him we asked for him, yeah?"

Athos bowed his head in acknowledgement before pulling d'Artagnan along.

The entire journey was short, but Athos felt it last an age, with d'Artagnan's eyes glaring accusingly at his back and his steps lazy.

Stopping outside the door, Athos dropped to one knee and leveled his eyes with the boy. "Just for a few days, Charlie. Not long."

d'Artagnan made a low pained sound and glared at the man impertinently, before folding his arms tightly.

"Charlie." Athos murmured mournfully. "I know you're upset, but we'll be back before you know it."

d'Artagnan stared for a few moments longer before mumbling something under his breath and dragging Athos towards the door.

Athos sighed.

"Thank you, Charlie."

***

As Athos had expected, when he returned to the Bonacieux residents d'Artagnan didn't want to leave.

He'd somehow found that old mangy cat and developed some odd relationship with it. Where by which the cat would sit motionless and D'Artagnan would watch it in awe, occasionally stroking its fur.

"C'mon Charlie." Porthos prompted, his patience wearing thin following d'Artagnan and Aramis joining forces to tangle all his tack and unload all his pistols, of which there were five.

Reluctantly d'Artagnan accepted the large mans hand and said thank you to Constance. Who had also fallen into d'Artagnan's trap of cuteness.

Scooping the lad up, Porthos feigned throwing him out one of the open windows while Aramis spoke with Constance and Athos watched on amusedly.

It was then that Monsieur Bonacieux happened to walk in.

"Bonacieux." Constance mumbled accordingly as her husband set down his parchments, his eyes lingering on the three men in his kitchen.

"The farmer left you, then?" He asked pompously, moving aimlessly through towards Constance.

Porthos blood bubbled a little.

"If you are referring to d'Artagnan, monsieur, no." Athos drawled nonchalantly. "He's away on personal business."

"A lover?" He replied snarkily and Porthos' gaze hardened considerably.

Athos glanced back casually. "No, monsieur. A matter of the fact his farm was destroyed and he wishes to sort...things out...and subsequently your rent."

Aramis bit back a smile and Porthos' anger was extinguished.

"Ah." Was all Bonacieux could think to say. "I see..."

The man froze and gazed at d'Artagnan, still in Porthos' arms. Raising a finger he pointed at the hoy. "Who's this?" He asked.

"Charles." Constance informed him, almost obediently. "He's Captain Treville's nephew." Sparing a quick glance to Athos to confirmed she'd answered the question correctly.

She had.

"I see." Bonacieux nodded. "Nice to meet you Charles."

d'Artagnan smiled a little manically. "Filh de puta."

Aramis choked. Porthos' heart burst. Athos tried not to jump out of the window.

"What did he say?" Bonacieux asked, suddenly perplexed by the three musketeers outbursts. It wouldn't take a genius to work out what d'Artagnan had said, Occitan or not, but then again Bonacieux wasn't known for his intelligence.

"It's Gascon." Constance explained, holding back her own desperate laughter. Clearly d'Artagnan had always had a cheeky streak. "He...he was just saying hello."

"Oh...okay..." Bonacieux smiled and d'Artagnan held his breath for so long he turned red in the face. Athos sighed and rose from his seat, sending warning glares to his companions.

"We should be leaving." He informed both Constance and her husband. "Thank you madame for you time." And upon turning to Bonacieux. "I hope we were of no inconvenience, monsieur."

"Of course not." The man replied brusquely, watching as the men and child scattered from the room.

He turned stiffly to Constance.

"What was that all about?"

***

Hey!

Sorry I haven't updated in like a lifetime! I've had a pretty crappy week overall! I've got some ear infection thing...which basically means the room is spinning 24/7...and not in the good party way...Haha!

But anyway I've been temporarily smothered to death with sisterly and brotherly affection...which isn't the best form of care...trust me ( I mean yelling 'there's a fucking earthquake' every five seconds and then watching me try to stand up laughing hysterically and bouncing round the room like three years olds, is NOT funny!)

But anyway! Sorry this chapters a little short, the next few will be much longer once the damned room stops spinning! Haha!

All my love,

Calon.

xxx

Chapter Text

"Charlie!"

The low ominous cry rang out clearly through the Garrison courtyard, causing those who occupied it to pause and hold their breath.

Laughter erupted throughout the yard however, when d'Artagnan and Porthos scurried across the dew coated yard, followed shortly by a fuming Aramis who carried a stained leather doublet and was missing a few locks of hair.

"Get back here! Now!" He ground out as the pair took cover in the stables, giggling like girls at the market.

Treville emerged from his office to address yet another hair greying situation. But even the Captain couldn't help but grin as Aramis held up his doublet which was sporting a rather horrifying smiley face drawing on the back in white paint. This coupled with the fact that one side of Aramis head had been trimmed slightly, giving him an oddly disheveled look, made the Captain retreat to his office before he lost his composure before the whole regiment.

Athos meanwhile, tried to diffuse the tension before Aramis scalped Porthos and battered little d'Artagnan.

"Revenge, 'Mis!" Porthos cried as the growling Spaniard advanced on them.

"You traitor!" Aramis snarled at d'Artagnan who squealed helplessly as Aramis pounced on him, lifting him up and throwing him over his shoulder.

Squirming helplessly d'Artagnan tried to break free from the sharpshooters grip, Porthos exploded into yet another fit of laughter and Athos sighed heavily, his eyes searching for any possibility of available wine.

"P'r'thos!" d'Artagnan groaned as Aramis carried d'Artagnan over to the hay stacks occupying the courtyard, knowing all too well what the spaniard intended to do.

Dangling the boy over a particularly grimy patch of hay, Aramis began taunting him mercilessly. Chuckling as d'Artagnan began squealing and yelling at Aramis to 'unhand him immediately'!

But then Constance appeared.

"Aramis!" She snapped, with a slight smile."A trained musketeer against a child! I think that's hardly fair!"

"Constance!" d'Artagnan gasped, reaching out slightly.

"Put the boy down, Aramis." She repeated sternly, folding her arms as the Spaniard begrudgingly set d'Artagnan down.

The Gascon scowled at Aramis, before announcing in slightly better french, that he doesn't need a woman to protect him.

And to the lads displeasure the three of them erupted into laughter, noting he same words falling from the Gascon's mouth when he first arrived.

Athos gained his composure first, straightening up and addressing Madame Bonacieux. "What brings you here this early, Madame?"

Constance paled a little before gesturing to the Captain's office. "

Not out here." She stated quietly.

And Athos nodded firmly and guided her up to the Captain's office whilst Porthos and Aramis placed d'Artagnan temporarily in a couple of musketeers care.

Once they were all hidden from prying eyes and curious ears, Constance presented the three with a letter.

"It's from the queen. I received it this morning...I've been off palace duty since the...incidence and she wanted to offer her condolences." She paused with a sigh. "Her majesty says that the Cardinal is still trying to push the whole 'witchcraft' view, but the King remains adamant that Le Maître has done nothing wrong."

Aramis cursed and stalked over to the other side of the room as Porthos continued to glare heartbrokenly at the floor. Athos however knew there was more to say.

"What is it Constance?" He asked, a sudden wave of sickness flushing over him.

Constance paled again and bit her lip hard. "Le Maître..." She's broken off, however, when d'Artagnan entered the room.

"Charlie?" Athos asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow at him, only to frown as the captain followed shortly behind him.

"My apologies, Philippe and Mathieu have palace duty...everyone else is training." Treville said tiredly, as d'Artagnan walked over to Athos.

The older musketeer nodded before turning back to Constance. "It's okay, you may continue, Madame."

The red haired woman nodded minutely and began again. "Le Maître has demanded he sees d'Artagnan...he wishes to...speak with him...privately..." d'Artagnan squeezed Athos' hand, paling considerably and using Athos as a semi-shield.

The senior musketeer ground his teeth and pulled d'Artagnan up into his arms. Porthos and Aramis already forming a defensive stance beside him, as if the threat was immediate.

"He will not come near, Charlie." Athos growled, his anger bubbling even more so when he felt d'Artagnan's body begin to tremble. Porthos grunted, his hand still lingering over his sword hilt, and Aramis' hand twitched over his pistol anxiously.

Treville watched, rather amused, with his eyebrows raised towards his receding hairline, as the men took on an almost fighting stance.

Clearing his throat, the Captain stepped forwards, gesturing for his men to calm down before turning to Madame Bonacieux.

"There is no need to worry about d'Artagnan's safety, Madame. No harm will come to him here, I can assure you that." He said solemnly, holding eye contact to convey the truth behind his words.

Constance nodded stiffly, her body run down and exhausted from her inability to sleep the night before, sobbing quietly beside her husband.

"Would you like me to a company you home, Madame?" Aramis asked, having realized her distress.

Constance smoothed over her dress and shook her head minutely. "No...I...I'll be fine...just..." she paused for a moment, "...promise me you'll inform me if anything arises."

Athos nodded abruptly. "Of course, you have our word, Constance."

Bowing her head the woman cleared from the office, allowing Treville to at least escort her to the Garrison gates, whilst the others began to register their panic.

"'Thos?" d'Artagnan asked quietly, watching nervously as the older man's jaw twitched angrily.

Huffing out a long and exasperated sigh, Athos pulled himself together and pulled d'Artagnan even closer.

"It'll be okay." He said calmly, unsure whether it was for d'Artagnan's benefit or for his own. d'Artagnan gazed back at the man, his eyes filled with nothing more than loyalty and trust. Athos felt suddenly weaker than he'd ever felt before.

Aramis relaxed slowly, keeping an eye on the way Porthos was still panting to contain his rage, stopping himself from scaring d'Artagnan.

"Okay," Aramis exhaled. "Let's get you to bed, you were up quite late last night, judging by the state of my doublet and hair...so..."

d'Artagnan let out a pained whine, only for it to be cut off with a hefty yawn, causing Porthos chuckled deeply and regained composure once again.

Athos smiled and raised an amused eyebrow before handing the boy over to Aramis.

He watched them leave silently before turning to place a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"All will be well, brother." He reassured him. "All will be well."

***

Aramis' absence was noted by the two men as they continued about their usual duties; patrolling the market, tending their horses and training.

Sharing a knowing smile with each other they realized that the Spaniard had most likely fallen asleep with d'Artagnan and failed to switch places.

Athos was propped up against his usual spot, Porthos not straying far as they both watched some recruits practice hand to hand combat. His equilibrium newly regained and a sense of calm reigning over the Garrison.

That is, until a bloodied Aramis stumbled into the yard.

"Aramis?!" Athos gasped, noting the impossibly pale colour filling his face and the blood streaming from his temple.

Porthos was there in an instant, catching the sharpshooter before his knees buckled while Athos yelled for someone to fetch a physician, panic sending all logical thoughts out the window.

"Aramis?" Porthos questioned, a stone pressing down heavily in his stomach.

Aramis gulped desperately for air again, struggling to cope with the throbbing sensation emanating from his head mixed with the way everything seemed so blurry and so impossibly loud.

"Ch-Charlie!" He choked out, swallowing convulsively to still his rolling stomach.

"Charlie what, Aramis?!" Athos demanded harshly, his eyes searching for...something.

The Spaniard gulped, his eyes fluttering closed.

"They took him."

***

Hi!

So...I'm alive! Hahaha! Sorry I haven't updated in flipping ages...again! And what's worse is I've left you on a cliffy!

God, I'm a bad person!! Hahah! But anyway I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and like it enough to read on!

Your kudos, comments and support are brilliant and they keep me writing and smiling every day!

Thank you all so much!

All my love,

Calon.

xxx

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan still didn't understand how it had all happened. He doubted he even wanted too.

One moment Aramis was tucking him in bed and babbling about his 'poor, innocent doublet' and then a second later the man was slumped on the floor, with five ominously mischievous men, dressed all in black stood behind him.

d'Artagnan, having realized the imminent danger he was in and how those men had hurt his older brother, attempted to jump out of bed and scream for help.

However, the five men had anticipated this and the moment d'Artagnan moved a thick sweet smelling cloth was clamped over his mouth and nose. 

And then he knew no more.

So as d'Artagnan sat between two of the men as the carriage shook and jerked over each and every cobble marking the streets of Paris, he was a little more than slightly confused.

But the Gascon bit back every moan as his head continued to throb and panic began simmering in his stomach, the only thing keeping him from making a break for it, was the musket held firmly to his head.

When the carriage stopped d'Artagnan froze, his eyes wide and dry lips parted, unable to even fight as the men dragged him from the carriage and into an equally dark and dusty building.

The two men pushed d'Artagnan down sharply and the buy yelled as his hands and knees scraped along the floor, drawing blood instantly. Squeezing his eyes shut to enclose the tears, he reminded himself to breathe steadily and remain calm.

"Hello, d'Artagnan." A silky smooth voice announced. "It's been quite a while, no?"

Blinking his eyes suddenly open, d'Artagnan squinted desperately against the dim light, his eyes settling blearily on a woman stood a few meters in front of him.

She had silky jet black hair, and piercing green eyes which made d'Artagnan want to curl up in a ball and cry.

"It's impressive." She started, moving forwards and dragging along nail carefully under his chin, making the boy swallow convulsively. "How do you do it....." She paused maliciously, narrowing her eyes at d'Artagnan. "Le Maître?"

And in that moment d'Artagnan's blood ran cold. He was beyond scared.

The skeletal and withered man stalked eerily from the shadows and smirked at little d'Artagnan.

"A magician," he grinned. "Never reveals his secrets."

The woman, of whom d'Artagnan had never come across in his life, folded her arms impatiently.

"Oh, drop the poetic flare, Le Maître." She drawled. "It's so very...unappealing."

Le Maître glared ferally at the woman before turning back to d'Artagnan.

"Well, then. My little Gascon." He smiled, rows of glistening white teeth appearing from behind those chapped lips. "You're going to make me a fortune when Spain hears about this."

And as those final words were delivered, d'Artagnan noticed Le Maître's faint Spanish accent. "You are the living proof that we will destroy Paris."

d'Artagnan snarled, a sound he'd heard Porthos make earlier the day before, as he tried to hide the disappointment washing over him as he realized his body was trembling nervously.

"Now, now." Le Maître sighed, rolling his shoulders and setting his eyes back on the boy. "We'll have none of that, plus you'll need to rest before I have you sent to Spain as my...proven hypothesis."

d'Artagnan's shaking suddenly became full on shudders, but this time not in fear, but anger.

Le Maître chuckled loudly before turning back to Milady, who still remained frozen in place. "We need witnesses and others to supply us with background information to further support my findings." He paused momentarily, waiting for the words to sink in, almost patronizingly. "Do you know of his family? Parents perhaps?"

Milady shook her head slightly. "No, I believe his mother is no longer with us...nor his father."

d'Artagnan frowned.

They had it wrong.

Of course they did.

Shaking his still drug addled mind, d'Artagnan pulled himself back into the conversation.

"I want him ready by dawn." Le Maître announced, drawing d'Artagnan's attention to the other shadows lurking around the room. "A carriage will be waiting outside, with a straight passage to Spain, thanks to our lovely Milady de Winter." He paused again, his tone hardening slightly. "Try not to harm him, he needs to be in good health for me to initiate my next plan. But I want the boy out of the way, so no matter what, none of you may leave this facility."

And with that, Le Maître glided through the room and disappeared through the entrance. Momentarily bathing the pith dark room in moonlight. 

d'Artagnan never imagined things to be scarier in the light than the dark. Well, not until that moments at least...

d'Artagnan looked to Milady helplessly, as she continued studying him wordlessly. Perking his head up a little and accepting the chains the men applied to his wrists, d'Artagnan held her venomous eyes.

"My brothers will find me."

***

Chapter Text

Athos tore into Aramis' rooms, his heart thumping and head spinning with panic as the realization of d'Artagnan's kidnap began to fully sink in.

"Charlie?!" He called out pointlessly, his mind raging wildly and body shaking with either anger or fear.

Porthos stumbled in a few moments later, having made sure Aramis was safe in the infirmary.

Athos snagged up the discarded cloth on the floor by Aramis' bed. The stench had his knees grow weak and he leant suddenly against Porthos.

"Athos?!" The larger man exclaimed, supporting his friend as he weakly threw the cloth away from him.

"Sleep draught." He mumbled thickly, his body slowly regaining composure. "They drugged him!"

The growl that Porthos let out at this realization, was not possibly human, his jaw twitching spasmodically and his fists clenched as hot puffs of air whooshed between his nostrils.

"We need to speak with Aramis." Athos said sternly, knowing all too well that if he didn't occupy Porthos with something, he'd likely batter the next smug face he saw, the pain of knowing his brothers were in danger all too much for him to deal with.

Porthos closed his eyes momentarily and opened them to face Athos, who kindly pretended to ignore the panicked tears glistening there.

"He might remember something." Athos offered quietly, his words holding no confidence or belief.

But Porthos grunted anyway, before mumbling under his breath. "Doubt he even remembers his own damned name."

Athos agreed silently.

The two men marched towards the infirmary, their hearts lifting a little when they encountered two exasperated musketeers attempting to hold, a now fully conscious Aramis, down to his bed.

"Athos! Porthos!" The sharpshooter croaked, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the two as the world shook violently around him.

"Hey, 'Mis." Porthos said kindly, nodding to the other musketeers to leave them in peace.

Athos blinked, a little stunned at how quickly Porthos had calmed himself. He'd forgotten how much of a gentle giant he was when you were injured.

"Charlie!" Aramis choked, curling his fists around Porthos' doublet. "Five men...couldn't stop...couldn't....have to find him....now...have to...."

Porthos grabbed Aramis' wrist and squeezed it tightly, forbidding him the right to babble himself into stupor.

"Easy, 'Mis." Porthos said, gently taking the medics other wrist and easing them both to the man's fluttering chest, forcing him to lie down and giving Porthos the space to sit next to him. 

Athos hung, somewhat awkwardly beside the men, twitching anxiously and wanting nothing more than go out and search for d'Artagnan. But his conscience wouldn't allow it. He'd sewn the guilt and self hatred in Aramis' eyes as they'd entered, and he knew that he had to reassure him that it wasn't his fault, that no one blamed him. Not like Savoy again.

Athos sighed. 

"Aramis." He said sternly, plonking himself next to Porthos. "It's not your fault. It could've happened to any of us. The only thing that matters is trying to find Charlie." 

Aramis gulped and nodded slowly, wincing as short burst of pain throbbed at his temple. 

Porthos huffed and shared a glance with Athos.

"What happened, Aramis?" Athos asked softly, knowing how fragile the man would be.

The Spaniard opened his eyes slowly and sucked in a deep breath.

"I was...talking to Charlie....and then...he..." He paused, frowning deeply and trying feebly to pull back what happened before he was hit. "There were five...I think...before I blacked out...and..." He paused again, and looked to Athos. "Smelt like forget me nots."

Athos refused to breathe.

***

Chapter Text

As d'Artagnan had expected, by midnight the majority of the men had left the room in search of some tavern, and the rest had dropped off to sleep, blatantly ignoring the orders Le Maître had left them with.

Listening closely to the soft snores echoing about him, d'Artagnan grit his teeth and held his breath, squinting weakly against the din room, the only source of light being a small lantern a few meters in front of him.

Hot wet tears began streaming down his face as he managed to free his left hand from his manacles, dark red burns and cuts sending lightning bolts of pain up his arm.

With one hand free, d'Artagnan managed to ease the other out before silently creeping towards the front entrance, body buzzing with anticipation.

His fingers were hovering mere millimeters away from the cool brass handle when a firm hand wrapped its way around his shoulder. 

And d'Artagnan froze.

Soft red lips floated near his ear.

"Come with me."

Thick, cold dread filled the Gascon's stomach like a lead weight.

Milady!

Was she trying to help him?!

"This way." She whispered, guiding his shaking body across to the other side of the darkened room and d'Artagnan tried desperately to fight the urge to just burst into tears.

"If you're going to escape, go this way, okay?" She said cooly, gesturing to the back door. d'Artagnan nodded weakly, still unnerved by how tightly she was squeezing his shoulder. "I'll alert the guards, but as soon as you get out you run. You just run, understand?"

d'Artagnan nodded again and swallowed thickly, sickness burbling impatiently in his stomach.

"Oh, and before you go," she whispered softly, enclosing his trembling hands around a small silver pendant. "Give this to your brother, Athos." She paused, and with a smirk added. "It's about time he knows who's in charge."

And with that she shoved the door open, a sudden burst of energy forcing the Gascon forwards as he was hit with the cool midnight air.

Sprinting at full pelt down the twisting streets, his feet breezing over cobbles and wind whooshing past his ears, d'Artagnan ran for his life.

He could hear the men yelling behind him, their hefty footfalls gaining on him steadily as he tripped and scraped his chin against the floor, snapping his teeth painfully together and drawing a panicked cry from his bloody lips. 

Hauling himself up d'Artagnan continued to skid down the streets his only goal to get away from those men...especially that woman...

Running a little too quickly around a particular corner, d'Artagnan ran smack bang into a young woman with cool blue eyes and long blond, tattered hair.

"Whoa! Easy there, little fella!" She chuckled, helping to steady him. "Why're you in such a hurry?"

d'Artagnan opened his mouth but no words came out.

He didn't have to explain himself, however, when the woman heard the shouts of the men from a few streets away and quickly snagged him by the arm, pulled him down one for he alleyways and covering him with her body to keep him hidden.

d'Artagnan waited on baited breath as the men skidded past.

"Looks like you've gotten yourself into a lot if trouble, eh kid?" She smiled, helping him to his feet once more. "And I'm guessing you not from around these parts?"

d'Artagnan nodded rather dazed as she lead him towards a place she called 'The Palace.'

"I'm Flea by the way." She told him kindly, holding his hand tightly as she guided him towards the building.

Once they arrived he was plonked on an old creaking table and given some water and dried bread while Flea ruffled his hair.

Then an old crone with one green eye and one blue eye, approached him and thoroughly stitched the gash in his chin and wrapped his wrists, hands and knees.

"Is there anyone we can contact for you?" Flea asked, only to smile serenely as she turned to find the boy had dropped off to sleep. 

"I guess, we'll continue this in the morning then." She grinned.

***

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan groaned a little as his eyes cracked open to the early morning beams of light breaking through the cracks in the ceiling above him.

Why did his head hurt so much?

Why did everything hurt so much?

Holding his stomach steadily in place, the Gascon slowly began to sit up, that uneasy knot in his tummy easing slightly when he caught sight of Flea walking towards him.

"Hey, sleepyhead." She smiled, her voice cracked and tough round the edges, every word delivered with a certain sound of humour or possibly exhaustion?

d'Artagnan blinked sleepily at her again before offering a sheepish smile.

"How are you feeling?" She asked quietly, knowing the boys head still thrummed achingly with every new sound.

d'Artagnan grimaced in response and Flea grinned.

"Right." She said promptly, wiping down her trousers and crouching in front of him. "I need to know if there's anyone we can contact for you? Mother? Father?"

d'Artagnan stared helplessly back at her, because he honestly didn't know. That scary woman and Le Maître had once again drawn his attention to his parents absence…

"Hrairs!" The boy cried weakly. "Athos! Aramis! Porthos!"

d'Artagnan felt a little dizzy at the thought that this woman could reunite him with his brothers and judging by the shocked look on her face she seemed to know who he was talking about.

"You know Porthos?" She asked incredulously, frowning at the boy confusedly.* The lad nodded eagerly, not caring about the way his head screamed at him. "Hirars! Brothers."

Flea paused for a few moments before calling for a older boy to send a message to the Garrison. 

To find d'Artagnan's brothers!

***

Athos stared morosely at his tankard of wine, the final dregs of the wine pulling him slowly down into a mild form if numbness as his fingers caressed the locket chained around his neck.

Tears prickled in the older man's eyes.

Anne had Charlie.

Again.

Sucking in a gasp of air greedily, Athos fought the urge to just give up and wait for...death?

He was alone again. 

He hasn't realized how alone he could feel.

Aramis was still disoriented from a pretty nasty concussion, and Porthos was worrying himself out of his wits looking after him. And here Athos was.

Alone.

And drinking away his sorrows.

Again.

Athos dropped his head heavily against the table, knocking his final wine bottle over with a hefty thump.

Athos had decided.

He was cursed.

***

Porthos has just escaped the confines of the sweaty infirmary when a young boy ran up to him, his scraggly hair and torn clothes instantly telling Porthos where the boy was from.

The Court.

"Monsieur Du Vallon?" The boy asked, scratching his head nonchalantly as he shifted from foot to foot.

"Yeah." Porthos said softly, feeling a little impatient for what the boy had to tell him.

"Flea s'nt me," he said, watching closely as Porthos' ears prickled at her name. "There's some kid in the Court, said he knows 'ya?"

Porthos' heart surged from his chest. 

"Charlie!" He breathed, before promptly ruffling the lads hair and stumbling off to find Athos.*l

Athos' apartments weren't far from the garrison, mainly because the man usually didn't feel up to walking to far the morning after a late night of drinking. So Porthos made it there within minutes, having sprinted there like a madman.

"Athos!" He bellowed, his nose crinkling in disgust when the stench of cheap alcohol and unwashed platters squirmed their way up his nose. "Athos!" He tried again, slightly concerned by his friends lack of response.

Juttering the frail door open, Porthos entered the cavern that was Athos' room. And he cursed loudly.

Athos was slumped over his table, countless dark green bottles college ting at his feet, and blood red wine running off the table in a steady waterfall.

"Athos..." Porthos breathed, dashing over to his friend and placing two trembling fingers beside the man's open mouth.

He lived.

Porthos had known leaving Athos so that he could supposedly go and 'sort something out' was a bad idea, but he'd been too wrapped up in himself, and Aramis and Charlie that he'd failed to act upon those instincts.

And now as Porthos gazed down at his unconscious and wine soaked friend, Porthos cursed himself.

"Athos..." He said weakly, rocking the man's shoulder slightly and evoking a low and angry groan from said drunkard. "Athos, please!" He repeated, more than a little ashamed by the neediness leaking into his voice.

The Lieutenant groaned again and cracked open his eyes mournfully. "G'way..." He growled, pulling away from Porthos' insistent hand and trying to bury his head securely on his arms.

Porthos was having none of it.

"Athos!" He snapped sternly before softening his tone. "I think I've found Charlie."

And as if a miracle, Athos' head snapped suddenly up, his eyes bright and alive. "You're sure?" He asked, his voice hoarse and mouth hung open comically.

"Yeah." Porthos confirmed warmly, not failing to notice how Athos swayed slightly in his chair and turned a little green. "I got a message from Flea, said she's got a little kid asking for us."

Athos jumped from his seat, dramatically pushing his stool backwards, swaying wildly.

Porthos grabbed his friend's arm to steady him. "Easy " he advised kindly, helping his friend to the door.

"We have to find him."

***

d'Artagnan was busy kicking his legs out repetitively as he perched against the tabletop, pretending to ignore the old crones piercing stare.

He couldn't ignore the excitement bubbling in his stomach for being reunited with his brothers again. The excitement for that feeling of belonging and safety…

It was as d'Artagnan contemplated this that soft footfalls and distant voices began to travel towards the room, echoing listlessly through the corridor.

d'Artagnan quite literally flew off his table when both Porthos and Athos strode in the room following shortly behind Flea.

The boy threw himself at Athos, who was nearer, and melted into the older man's embrace, burying his head into the man's shoulders as exhausted and relieved tears wracked his little body. The sudden feeling of safety all too overwhelming.

He was then bear hugged by Porthos who semi-suffocated d’Artagnan who didn't mind in the least that is tiny lungs were getting crushed, his mind too occupied with impossible relief.

“It's okay.” The big man smiled, handing him back over to an utterly dizzy with happiness Athos who held the boy even more tightly to his chest than Porthos. “You're safe now, Charlie.”

d’Artagnan nodded weakly, still not strong enough to pull his head away from where it nestled between the crook of Athos’ neck and his shoulder. 

Porthos continued to talk quietly to Flea, thanking her and arranging for them to meet again in private, which d’Artagnan chose to discreetly smile at.

Once they were sorted and ready to head back to the Garrison, a sudden question flew out of little d’Artagnan’s mouth as a burst of panic flooded over him.

“‘Mis?!” He gasped, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

Porthos smiled softly and patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Let's go find him, eh?”

d’Artagnan nodded giddily and clenched his fists around Athos’ doublet, deciding it was best to keep the locket Milady had give him tucked away under his shirt to avoid any additional stress.

All he wanted to do right now, was see Aramis again and hear his jovial voice.

***

Treville looked utterly ecstatic when Porthos and Athos both strolled back into the Garrison glowing with triumph and guiding little d’Artagnan in with them.

A quick glance from his Lieutenant gave him the all clear and Treville heaved out a relieved sigh, watching with a warm smile as they disappeared off into the infirmary.

***

Aramis was perched on countless pillows and worrying his nails having been unable to rest or even communicate properly with utter distress, when the trio arrived.

“Charlie?” The Spaniard gasped as the child flung himself into his arms, binding on his thin bed and throwing his chubby little arms around his neck.

Pulling away slowly, d’Artagnan gripped Aramis’ face gently and tilted his head so he could see the ugly gash and bruise forming there. He hissed in sympathy before balling his fists and clenching his jaw.

“It's okay, Charlie.” Aramis reassured him warmly, his heart surging with heat at the boys protective reaction. “I’m okay.”

d’Artagnan looked unconvinced as Aramis too his hands and his face suddenly paled.

“Your wrists!” He exclaimed, disregarding his thumping headache and sitting up even straighter. “And you knees, hands and chin!”

He brushed the wounds gently. “How did you get these?!”

Porthos and Athos both moved forwards in disbelief. 

How could the boy have hidden all of these?

Athos’ mind ticked back to after the Vadim plot, when d’Artagnan had told them he was fine before collapsing into Aramis’ waiting arms moments later, much to Porthos and Athos’ surprise. Not the medic’s however.

Athos sighed with a smile as Aramis fussed over d’Artagnan, feeling the strain of the past few days bleeding from his body.

Finally the boy was safe.

Safe and sound.

***

Chapter Text

Stitched and cleaned from his disastrous kidnapping three days ago, d’Artagnan sat in front of his brothers with a wide grin, swinging his legs over the chair with eyes alight with excitement.

Aramis smiled at his little brother and admired the new brown coat, black winter boots, blue gloves and hat they'd brought the lad when the first snow began falling relentlessly over Paris two days earlier.

Little Charlie stifled a giggle.

And why was he so happy?

Well, young d’Artagnan was expecting a visit from St Nicholas, for tomorrow was Christmas day, the day the lord was born.

A time his family gathered together and exchanged gifts, jokes and laughter before the fire.

“Bon Nadal!” He cried the words bursting from his lips as he leapt off his chair and grasped Porthos’ hand, using all of his weight to try and drag the man outside and into the snow coated streets.

Before the karger man could even ask d’Artagnan what the hell he was doing, an icy ball of snow smacked him directly in the temple and sent a now fully healed Aramis into fits of laughter.

Turning to face the direction of the fired shot, Porthos found d’Artagnan staring at him with a smug look on his face.

Porthos chuckled deeply. “Oh you're on!” He growled, surging forwards whilst Aramis tried to pelt him with snowballs with that sharpshooter deadly aim.

Athos laughter warmly as Porthos grabbed hold of d’Artagnan and dumped him in a pile of snow as Aramis shot snowballs at his back.

Dramatically Porthos dropped to his knees with a moan as though Aramis had actually shot him before slumping to the ground.

d’Artagnan rose from beside Porthos in the snow laughing hysterically as he paced one of his boot on top of Porthos’ shoulder and posed triumphantly and Aramis applauded him for his heroic actions.

Only Porthos wasn't quite done yet and suddenly rose to his feet grabbing the little Gascon by his ankle and dragged him playfully through the snow. Causing Aramis to rush to his aid.

Athos grinned as the trio began making a snowman...or at least that was what he thought they were doing...when in actual fact they were plotting against him, gathering snow balls and discussing how they'd attack.

Meanwhile the older musketeer called them back, before they caught a cold, totally unawares that they were each carrying snowballs behind their backs.

He eyed the trio suspiciously as they stalked toward him, a amig look on Porthos’ face, a cheeky grin on d'Artagnan's and a sickly innocent one on Aramis’.

“What is it?” He demanded, narrowing his eyes as they spared each other questioning glances.

“Atemptat!” d'Artagnan cried, and the three began pelting Athos with snowballs.

Once the assault was over Athos glared at the three children before him, who were all rolling around in the snow giggling like milk maids!

Athos gave up and started laughing also. “I’ve been betrayed!” He cried, dropping to the floor and clutching his chest. “Woe is me!”

Closing his eyes he lay in the snow, startled when d’Artagnan bounded alongside him and flopped against his chest. Raising his little eyebrows the Gascon unexpectedly joined forces with Athos and the pair rose in unison before beginning their snowball war...to which d'Artagnan was of course triumphant.

Little d’Artagnan watched happily as his brothers pushed each other around in the snow and sniffed and shivered against the cold.

Noticing their youngest's early signs of a cold, despite his warm clothing, Aramis approached the boy and took the sleepy child into his arms before carrying him inside to warm up.

Ordering the lad to change out of his wet clothes, Aramis lit the fire in his rooms whilst Athos hunted down some extra blankets and Porthos went out to buy them some warming food.

Little d’Artagnan appeared a short time later, his cheeks flushed, nose red, hair tied back and new night shirt and breeches wrapped on snugly.

Yawning, d’Artagnan padded over towards the fife and settled against Athos as the other two formed a sort of small circle in front of the blaze and set small plates of meat, bread, butter and pastries before them.

After an evening of laughter and food, d’Artagnan stood up, much to Athos’ surprise and wandered over to Aramis’ bed before pulling out a small box hidden beneath it.

The three musketeers frowned as the boy brought the box over to them and opened it up.

“Porthos.” He said softly, pulling out a woven charm with a wooden carving of bear on it. He scooted forward and placed it over the man's neck before pulling out another.

“‘Mis.” He said, placing a similar pendant around the Spaniards neck with a carved wooden eagle on it.

Then finally he pulled out the third pendant and placed it around Athos’ neck. Like the others it was hand woven with black thread and sat below his sternum, with the carving of a sword against the fleur de lis symbol.

“Treville e Constance qu'ajudèc-me.” He smiled as the three men gawped at him, their eyes shining.

“Oh Charlie!” Aramis cried, throwing himself at the boy before he was smushed together and smothered with words, love and hugs that meant the world to him.

Eventually he drifted to sleep beside Aramis, the man having provided his shoulder as a pillow.

Smiling down at his little brother, Porthos peeled him of the and tucked him in Aramis’ bed before both he, Aramis and Athos crawled in beside him, having left the Gascon a stocking at the end of the bed to be filled to the brim by St Nicholas by the morning.

***

Chapter Text

Christmas morning fluttered by without a hitch, d’Artagnan awoke squawking and jumping about on top of Porthos. The morning was spent with both little d’Artagnan and Aramis jumping about and sharing the same excitement as they opened the boys stocking.

In it were a wooden horse carving, a woollen blanket and a new shirt.

d’Artagnan was more than pleased.

They ate breakfast earlier than usual and headed to morning mass, where Porthos pretended to understand, d’Artagnan fidgeted endlessly and whispered with Athos who looked on the verge of suicide and Aramis hummed along to every word.

With every hymn d’Artagnan went red in the face as Porthos attempted to remain in tune, Athos himself, was chewing his lips and Porthos sung just a little louder to try and break d’Artagnan’s composure. Aramis meanwhile scowled at them impatiently.

However, it was just after lunch, when the four had returned to Trevilles office, that little d’Artagnan finally asked the question they'd all be dreading.

The four men stood stock still.

d'Artagnan folded his arms and pouted.

The four men before him shuddered.

"Papa!" He demanded once more, dread flooding into his stomach and churning there unsettlingly.

Trevilles jaw twitched.

"On ei mon Papa?!" He growled, his eyes narrowing threateningly.

Stepping forwards stiffly, Treville bent down to remain at eye level with the lad.

Taking his small hands in his own, Treville locked eyes with d'Artagnan.

"Charlie, you're father was a good man." He said slowly, choosing to speak in French so that the others could understand...hopefully. "I knew him...well I knew your mother first of all...but I still know that he was a good man, a good soldier, a good husband and farmer..." He paused, watching the boys face closely as Athos, Aramis and Porthos shared perplexed glances. "A good father."

d'Artagnan frowned.

"But your papa isn't here, d'Artagnan. I'm so...so sorry." Those final words were delivered with so much compassion and care that the three musketeers that were present felt their hearts shift in their chests.

d'Artagnan wrenched his hands free and stumbled backwards. "Mòrt?!" He choked, tears washing across his eyes.

Treville paused once more before nodding.

With his bottom lip trembling wildly, d'Artagnan dragged his broken heart back together. "Mama?" He asked, his voice barely exceeding a whisper.

Treville shook his head minutely.

d'Artagnan let go.

Dropping to his knees the child began sobbing openly, when Treville moved forwards to comfort him he pushed the man away angrily. Rage intertwining with sorrow.

Athos' heart shattered.

Seeing d'Artagnan like this...was painful. And the sudden realization that this must've been how 'normal' or older d'Artagnan had felt...how he still felt...only as a child d'Artagnan, who up until this point Athos still classed 'a child', could express this anguish in a more direct form.

Athos hadn't really thought about it.

Up until now.

Moving forwards and ignoring as d'Artagnan weakly slapped at the man's chest, Athos enveloped d'Artagnan, holding him steady as he wailed for his parents.

Aramis and Porthos did the same, swallowing the small boys shaking body in a three way embrace.

Before long, his cries grew quieter and his eyes began drooping as the child sobbed himself into some odd form of stupor.

Nodding to Aramis, Porthos pulled the boy into his arms and carried him to their room.

They slept in the bed with the boy that night, holding him closely as he rode out his intense grief. Ready to be there when he woke.

***

Chapter Text

The following morning brought a numbness which d’Artagnan hadn't ever felt before. His muscles ached and his cheeks stung with the remains of dry salty tears. He couldn't cry anymore. He couldn't even muster the energy to try to.

Aramis managed to coax him into eating some breakfast, but for the most of the day he remained curled up against either Athos or Porthos, occasionally burying his head in Aramis’ neck.

He felt lost.

And alone.

And scared.

Although he wasn't half as scared as Treville. The man, who had faced the heat of battles with nothing more than his bare fists to defend himself, found himself too scared to open the door outside Aramis’ apartments. For a good ten minutes he stalled outside; pacing up and down and continuing to remove his hat before putting it back on again an unhealthy amount of times.

Eventually he plucked up the courage to knock.

Athos greeted him first, the older musketeer's concern apparent the second he picked up on the captain's anxiousness. “What is it?” He asked immediately, Aramis instantly appearing beside him, his brows furrowed.

The captain made a short gesture, “May I come in?”

Athos nodded, and moved aside allowing their Captain access into the darkened apartment.

The man hid his sad smile as his eyes found d’Artagnan curled up on Aramis’ bed, little d’Artagnan’s face squashed up against the larger mans shoulder.

Taking a seat close to the fire, Treville accepted a drink from Athos, which sent alarm bells off instantly for the two men.

Sharing an uneasy glance with Athos, Aramis asked again.

“Is there a problem Captain?”

Treville sighed heavily, his eyes watching the fire dance against the shadowed room. “Yes, yes there is.” He huffed rubbing his eyes frustratedly. “Tonight, the King is holding a feast in honour of Le Maître.” He held up his hands to prevent Athos from cursing. “And he has demanded d’Artagnan attends.”

“No!” Aramis snapped, lurching from his seat before wincing as little d’Artagnan frowned and whimpered in his sleep at the sound of raised voices.

Regaining composure the Spaniard bit his lip before repeating the word once more this time at a much quieter tone. “No.” He hissed. “We will not attend, Charlie will stay here and that's final.”

Treville nodded, his eyes downcast. “Yet I’m afraid... if these orders are not carried out...then d'Artagnan will lose his commission forever.”

***

Athos clenched his jaw tightly.

d’Artagnan had remained plastered to the man's leg the whole journey to the palace. His eyes darting about restlessly and his nervous energy almost tangible by the others.

As expected the banquet hall was decorated with extravagant decor, with tables of immaculate foods and crowds of nobles dressed in the most vibrant clothing little d’Artagnan had ever seen.

However, he wasn't really taking it all in. Because, instead his little toddler eyes were far too busy searching the banquet hall for Le Maître. Searching the hall for the beast himself.

Eventually through the swaying crowds d’Artagnan found him.

“Charlie?” Athos asked, crouching down beside the boy who was staring across the hall in a trance like state. “What is it?”

Reluctantly the boy turned his terrified gaze from the man and look to Athos. He shrugged quietly and pulled Athos towards one of the seats by the table, without uttering a single word.

A red faced and fuming Madame Bonacieux stormed toward the pair, taking a seat near d’Artagnan confidentially despite being a servant. Athos, quite intelligently, made no comment and simply watched as she tried to calm herself and turned to glaring at everyone in the room.

Eventually the King rose from his seat at the front of the hall, stilling the chattering and dancing with a mere hand gesture, and raising his glass with an incredibly arduous speech.

“To Le Maître!” He called, raising his glass to his lips. It was at that exact moment that little d’Artagnan jumped from his chair and leapt across the hall.

“Dròga!” The boy yelped, as Athos, Aramis and Porthos drew their swords and flanked the little Gascon.

The King and the majority of the court remained utterly stunned into silence. Partly because they knew this was the ‘miracle’ child and also because of how loud his little lungs were and the power they had over the room.

Shaking his head stressfully d’Artagnan padded up to the King's table and snatched his cup away before laying it on the floor and knocking it over.

The blood red wine glided gracefully over the floor a small white pouch slopping out from the bottom of the chalice.

The exact same pouch Le Maître had given d’Artagnan.

A wave of gasps and shock washed its way around the courtroom.

“Guards!” The king cried as Le Maître jumped from his chair.

“You filthy bastard!” The enraged man cried, his Spanish accent apparent with his livid tone, as he flung himself over the table, lunging for little d’Artagnan.

“Charlie!” Athos cried as the boy was sent flying backwards, smacking his head against the floor with an unearthly crack. Lunging forwards the three musketeers moved to defend their brother, Athos’ sword piercing through the Le Maître’s stomach as Aramis rushed over to d’Artagnan.

“You-how?” The man gurgled as his own blood began to choke him. “How?”

“Brotherhood.” Athos replied quietly, watching closley as a flash of realization spread over the mans face before his body slumped forwards.

By the time Athos had finished watching the life drain out of the man, Porthos had bundled d’Artagnan up in his arms and was already making his way to Lemay’s rooms. The Gascon boy lying limply in his arms, Aramis’ torn shirtsleeve wrapped around his little head to feebly stop the bleeding.

Porthos felt physically sick as he made his way through the palace, leaving behind the chaos in the hall as Athos, Aramis, Constance and Treville ran after him. The small fragile body in his arms swaying steadily as he rushed on, d’Artagnan’s breathing becoming shallower and shallower as they moved.

“C’mon Charlie,” he begged, tears forming in his eyes, “we're nearly there, now, not much further.”

But the boys rattling chest gave one shuddering breath before his little heart finally gave out and the blood seeped from his skull.

***

Chapter Text

Lemay was sent flying off his stool when Porthos barged into his rooms, much to the medics distaste as the book he was studying fell from his desk in a cloud of dust.

However, his attitude changed when he saw the small child in the musketeers arms. Flying across the room, Doctor Lemay instructed Porthos to lay the boy on the designated cot whilst he grabbed his medical supplies.

“What happened?!” He demanded as his fingers probed the boy's head before placing his fingers on the child's neck, searching for any sign of a pulse.

His fingers faltered when a tiny flutter of blood rushed past his hand. Suddenly and upon instinct alone Lemay shut out the world around him, ignoring as the others rushed in, and set about trying to heal the boys wound.

Unnervingly a few times he required to beat the boys chest to physically get his heart pounding once more, however the physician spent no time mulling the fact over.

“Let me help.” Aramis implored, allowing Lemay to fetch his sewing kit whilst the Spaniard applied pressure to the boy's head, making sure the child remained on his side throughout the procedure.

But of course, because it was d’Artagnan, it wasn't going to be that easy.

Athos heard the whimper first, but before he could react, little d’Artagnan had begun moaning and attempting to wriggle off the cot.

Porthos and Athos moved forwards suddenly, Athos crouching down at holding the boys face, whilst Porthos pinned down his legs.

“Shhh, Charlie. Hold still, hold still.” The Comte murmured, eyeing Aramis desperately as Lemay positioned himself behind the boy's head, needle and thread in hand.

“Hold him steady.” Ordered Lemay, as he begun to make the first stitch, pointedly choosing to ignore the fact that he had three usually stone faced musketeers either sobbing or almost sobbing in his medical room.

The child's cries were earth shudderingly familair.

For once, Lemay wished he could do more, yet all he could do was hope and pray that whatever little he could do, was enough.

Once he'd stitched the wound firmly shut and dowsed the gash in alcohol, as the boy had long passed out, Lemay’s fingers jerked
the boys throat.

The Lord answered his prayers and a faint thrum greeted Lemay, the three tense musketeers watching on bated breath as he visibly sagged with relief.

“He lives.” He croaked. “He lives.”

***

Constance remained beside little d’Aratagnan for almost the whole night, holding the Gascons hand as he rested.

She couldn't help but feel as if the child before her was in fact the man she'd fallen in love with, only with fewer nightmares and scars.

She gently pushed a strand of d’Artagnan’s hair from his eyes, smiling towards Athos as he returned from ‘dealing’ with the court.

The older man touched her shoulder warmly. “Go home, Constance.” He said quietly as to not disturb the snoring lad. “I’ll wait with him.”

The red haired woman smiled graciously before rising from her seat and making her way back through the palace, grinning as she found both Aramid and Porthos sleeping right outside the door to d’Artagnans room, which was one of His Majesty’s finest guest rooms that the man himself had insisted on the boy staying in.

Shaking her head, she moved on, slipping into the night with a relived smile.

Little did she know, that was all about to change.

***

Chapter Text

Night swooped in quicker than Athos' could have imagined, and before he really knew it he awoke to shafts of sunlight breaking through little d'Artagnan's palace room. Shaking his head, and rolling his aching neck Athos rose, briefly noting how loud the boy's snores were before he left the room to check on the others. He grinned to himself as he found the pair propped up against each other in a comical manner, snoring softly. Feeling unusually cheerful, the older musketeer decided to wake his brothers in the cruelest way.

Stomping his feet hard on the ground Athos feigned having ran unto the hallway. "Attack! Aramis, Porthos, the palace is under attack!" He cried, watching on hysterically as the pair floundered to their feet blinking up at their mentor with disorientated gazes.

"Athos!" Porthos snapped, slumping back onto the floor. "You've aged me another 15 years..." He grumbled watching, looking very much so like a scolded child as Aramis slowly regained his senses and realized that there was in fact, no attack.

"Bastard." The Spaniard huffed, before chuckling lightly.

"What's going on?"

The three musketeers froze.

Turning slowly around to face the room Athos, mere moments ago, had left the three men gasped.

d'Artagnan stared straight back at them, stumbled back a few steps at their gasps, peered down at the thin sheet around his naked waist (out of fear that is had slipped, hence being the reason for his brothers pale faces) and then yelped as the three fully grown men leapt on him like a pack of wolves leaving d'Artagnan to desperately return the embraces with one arm, keeping the other holding up his dignity.

Confusedly, d'Artagnan allowed Athos to steady him, his mentor looking close to tears. "What in God's name is going on?" He demanded, flushed from being half smothered to death by the men before him.

But before the men could answer, a familiar figure dashed the corridor having dropped her washing and crashed into the Gascon.

"Constance?" d'Artagnan cried as she shoved him back into his private room.

"We'll leave you to it then..." Athos frowned, to which Aramis unhelpfully added. "See you at breakfast!" And dragged the older man away, ignoring the way Porthos mumbled something along the lines of "Or maybe later," under his breath.

***

Surely, enough, d'Artagnan joined his brothers for breakfast now full dressed, with a red flush to his cheeks and his lips swollen slightly.

Athos felt sorry for the boy man, Aramis had picked up on his ability to blush at the drop of a hat and teased him to no end about it. Athos smiled to himself as he remembered the first time Aramis embarrassed d'Artagnan over the fact he spoke to his mare, the Gascon had blushed so furiously he locked himself in the tack room and refused to come out again until Aramis ran across the Garrison naked...which the Spaniard was unnervingly willing to do...

"How's the head?" Aramis asked, surprising Athos as he didn't make a crude comment... "Hope it's not any worse after your morning's strenuous activities..."

Athos kicked himself mentally and internally planned whether the fall from the window would kill him at those leered words that fell from the Sharpshooters sickeningly smug mouth.

d'Artagnan didn't even bother to hide his disgust and instead chose to sit next to Athos instead "My head's fine...what do you mean worse?"

The three men fell instantly silent, questioning how on earth the wound had healed.

"So," The Gascon began, haunting the others from eating and shattering the uncomfortable silence that had settled as the three tried to grasp the fact d'Artagnan was no longer a child and instead had taken to staring at him unnervingly. "This morning," he began as he buttered his bread, "I have been tackled by you lot, Constance..well," he cleared his throat and refused to make eye contact with Aramis or Porthos, "Treville then practically kissed me, Lemay called me a miracle and started to cry because apparently 'I'd been blessed and shouldn't be alive'...the King and Queen have offered me an estate our near Gascony and I've been invited to a hanging later today" He paused to catch his breath before peering around the Garrison courtyard, "Oh, and everyone is looking at me funny...care to explain?" He asked, narrowing his eyes accusingly.

"It's, uh..." Porthos began, visibly breaking out in a sweat.

"Nothing that interesting, really." Aramis added. "We'll explain it to you once you're drunk tonight."

d'Artagnan looked like he was about to object when Treville approached them, he too looking weirdly happy to see the inseparables. "Gentlemen," he smiled, "the execution has been moved forward, we have been summoned to the Palace."

Before the Gascon could even asked, Porthos had dragged him to his feet and they were marching towards the palace, the others demonstrating a severely serious mood whilst d'Artagnan remained blissfully unaware of the slow brewing anger from his brothers.

The men, once they'd arrived at the Palace, were offered access on the balcony surrounding the scaffold to watch a man, d'Artagnan learned was Le Maitre...the man who'd given him the drink...

The Gascon also didn't fail to notice how his brother all protectively surrounded him when the man was marched to his scaffold, those piercing old blue eyes locked with d'Artagnan's the entire time.

As the floor dropped at the rope went slack, the man smiled at d'Artagnan, and icy cold hatred hovering in his eyes before the light left them all together.

***

Later that evening, in some dark overcrowded Tavern, d'Artagnan once again persistently asked the men what had happened, but each time he received the same response.

"It's a long story Little Gascon Boy, don't waste your time pondering on the past."

***